


for their own ends

by reddisk



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddisk/pseuds/reddisk
Summary: Will Byers is a dissociative amnesiac.Sometimes the bad guys are smart, too.





	1. irises

His name is Will Byers, and he is hopeless.

He watches himself in the mirror. His face is hollow, more than a little gray, with big, black eyes and mousy hair that sweeps across his forehead. It doesn’t feel like his. It feels like the pallid, unfeeling kind of face you see in gothic paintings. He recognizes himself, but only because it’s the same face he’s had for all of seventeen years, and it hasn’t gotten significantly _better,_ or _worse_ — only _different._ Longer. Leaner. Hungrier. 

His mother’s knuckles rap quick against the doorframe. Familiar-like. He knows the sound of her heart, her voice, her footsteps. “Will, baby, you alright in there?”

Of course he is. His cheek twitches. “Yeah, Mom.”

She’s gone. He watches himself, again. Empty. Empty. Empty. Then, he raises a wet, cold rag against closed eyes, and he sighs quietly through his nose. It could always be worse. It has been. 

He steps out of the bathroom, and he finds his brother hovering over the stove, prodding experimentally at a cast-iron pan full of runny eggs. Since his recent acquisition of a steady, sensible nine-to-five, Jonathan has been especially thoughtful about housework. He worries too much. Their mother is busy, hardly scraping by, but she insists Jonathan keep every penny of his paycheck and put it toward an education, or something equally valuable. Thus, he contributes in other, smaller ways. He makes runs to the laundromat. He cooks, too — just not well, as evidenced by his mess of eggs. Will tries not to wince. Still, they exchange a glance, and he proceeds into the other room. Proceeding, proceeding — God help him, he’s almost there, nearing the living room couch where his sneakers are strewn in twos across the hardwood floor — 

“Will?” Jonathan’s voice. It’s a little chirpy, sudden, like he’s been put on to the task by their mother. “S’time to eat. You haven’t had breakfast, have you?”

Will has learned to lie. He’s even good at it, sometimes. “Had a PopTart.”

“Box is unopened.” 

It’s not remotely accusatory; only factual. Will can’t bother to hold a grudge. So, he steps into his sneakers (ratty, well-worn, well-loved) and reenters the kitchen. Jonathan has dumped the eggs. Instead, he’s buttering toast, the likes of which is just golden — how Will likes it. There’s a tall iced glass of orange juice, too. His stomach twists up like a garden snake. He is wary. The Doctor’s words echo in his ears, almost mean, like a tease: _Food is fuel. You’ve got to eat, son._ And, he knows. He _does_. It’s tricky, but at uncertain, randomized times of day, Will is able to stomach a bite or so of whatever’s around. It’s not a conscious refusal, or anything. He isn’t anything like the girls in after-school specials. He promises. (Still, his mom shoos him toward the family’s crooked scale, and she frowns for every number she sees. He hates it. He feels like a specimen.)

He settles in against the kitchen table. His elbows bump the old wood, familiar-like.; he feels as if they’ve worn the furniture down like river rock through years of unbridled use. Jonathan smiles, sets the toast before him, his juice. Will’s eyes fall out of focus. He realizes the meal should be appetizing, if only remotely. It’s warm. It’s buttery. It’s plain toast, speared in half, splayed across a clean, white plate. 

So, Will takes a bite. _Attempts,_ anyway. His chewing is a thoughtful process. He can’t autopilot like the rest of society; he’s got to consciously choose when and how to swallow, to salivate. It takes work. In a strange, insensible way, it almost _hurts._ He struggles through a second bite and has a cold sip of juice. Stings. There’s pulp, which he used to like. Now it’s like soupy bile. 

He coughs. Stands, and turns to face the sink, where he spits up what’s left of breakfast. It’s a long, arduous process. Not his fault. He tells himself that much, over and over again, because his only other option is to realize he’s godforsaken. He retches. His throat aches. Jonathan comes to his aid, resting a strong, steady hand against the slope of his back, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve done this too many times before.

“Don’t tell Mom,” he croaks stupidly. There’s no use. She knows, she must know — the house is so small, and the walls are so thin. The first couple times, he cried. Now, he merely raises his head, rinses his mouth as clean as he is able with warmish tap water. If he could see his reflection, he would hate it; even so, he can gather plenty enough about how horrible he looks courtesy of Jonathan’s pained expression, so he doesn’t need a mirror. He just wants to go. He feels cloyed. 

“Okay, buddy.” Jonathan is croaky, too. “Sure thing.”

Last year, Will would walk to school. He’d cycled before then; that was middle school, and some of the other kids stuck glass shards into his bicycle tires, so he stopped. This year, he’d earned his driver’s license and was a smidge proud of his ride: the old Ford, which is available now that Jonathan’s got a newer, more _reliable_ car for himself. Will only ever skirts Hawkins, so the Ford is fine. It’s familiar. He is certainly accustomed to the vehicle’s special brand of wear and tear, and he wears it sort of like a badge of honor, even if it’s just another thing that makes him a _Byers._ If he could, he’d go somewhere big, loud, populous — anywhere that the name “Will Byers” is nothing. There’s great comfort in being invisible. He likes it better than being a target, anyway. Still, he is attached to the car, attached enough that he parks somewhere different every day. It’s been a long while since anybody bothered to pick on him, now that they’re older — but he likes to be cautious. He can’t afford to replace a flat. 

He drums the wheel to an imaginary beat. It’s cloudy. Appropriate, he can’t help but feel; the first day of a spanking new school year always felt ominous. There would be an air of uncertainty he couldn’t shake until he received a seating arrangement, or some _schedule,_ at the least. He makes use of old, crumpled notebooks and pencils his mother pockets during her shifts at Melvald’s (on accident, so she claims, but Will can’t be so sure). His same-old backpack rolls around the backseat. It still smells like pop after he’d spilled Diet-Something over his Pre-Calc textbook. Coke, maybe. Or was it his Mom’s TaB?

He arrives fast. Faster than he’d like, anyway. He parks underneath a tree’s makeshift shade and watches the school’s entrance from a long, long distance. Before, he knew everyone. Every stupid face. Now, it’s a blur, always — whether they’re new, or mean, or people he maybe knew, once upon a time. There’s no telling. It makes him guilty, on the odd occasion he receives a “hello” in the hallways. He never knows how to respond. _Do I know you?_

An anxious pause. The windshield is foggy. As he shoulders his bag, he takes a moment to ogle his car’s tired bumper, almost like he expects some new, unforeseen scrape. The back is lonely. Jonathan was firmly against tarnishing his vehicle through scratchy and contrived decor, but Will likes color, and has thus acquired a singular sticker: _The Rock_ at 105.6 FM. He doesn’t know the station. He just likes how the letters pop, is all. Once the car’s doors are securely locked, he proceeds up the parking lot’s long, long slope, all the way up until he reaches the gray double-doors of Hawkins High School. The students are like flies, almost. Buzzing. Loud. In droves. He keeps his head down, and he manages to slip past clumps of people, people he can’t possibly know: tall, or blonde, or dark, or stocky. His mind whirls. His stomach turns. 

Homeroom is C12. He finds his way numerically, wandering past C9, C11 — and, upon locating C12, ducks in as inconspicuously as he is able. The fluorescents are harsh. He imagines he can feel the light beaming against his neck, hot and loud, flickering, humming. As is tradition, he settles in against the nearest empty desk. His bag falls to the tiled floor with a thump. 

When asked to describe the sensation of _unknowing,_ Will never quite understood how to go about a response. It didn’t feel like anything was missing. He told the doctor that much: that the world was the same as it had always been, so far as he was concerned. The hard part was realizing that something was wrong. That he _should_ know that face, that smile. That voice. That he was incorrect, somehow. Such is precisely how he feels in the moment, _today’s_ moment, hunched up against an ugly, uncomfortable desk with strange sounds and expressions ricocheting off his skull. Round faces. Puckered lips. Scrunched eyes, and scrunched noses. Sometimes, a person will send him reeling, or he’ll realize something very suddenly: _That’s my friend. I knew her. I knew him._

_ I know him. _

Roll call proceeds. Will knows his name, of course, and he responds likewise to the familiar ring of _William Byers._ He never bothers with the “just Will, thanks.” It’s unnecessary. Everyone knows him. They’ve known him since “Will Byers” was pasted to the walls, had frequented television, was spoken in tongues. He is no secret. Schedules are distributed, and he folds his. Firstly, English. English is fine. Human Anatomy, which worries him. He hates to see little furry things all splayed out and prodded. It’s all very uneventful aside from an abrupt sick feeling, which he chalks up to the thought of dead pigs, dead frogs, dead rats — et cetera. 

“Hey, Will.” A voice. A face. Will studies both, and his expression must be blank, because the voice proceeds, “It’s Lucas.”

“I know.” He does _now,_ anyway. He can feel his brain’s cogs turning. _Sinclair._ Friend. Kind, and brave, and smart. Still, he knows he wasn’t very convincing in the moment, because they’ve apparently got neighboring desks — and Will hadn’t looked at him, not once. Something like guilt writhes in his stomach.

Lucas is polite enough to pretend Will didn’t need the extra help. “Right. Let me see your schedule, man.”

Will slides the slip across his desk. Lucas reads. There’s an awkward pause wherein Will feels as if he should be doing something, but then it’s over, and Lucas is nodding. “Cool. We’ve got lunch together.”

“Cool.” His mother calls it “parroting.” It’s easier to be an echo than an individual, sometimes. It’s not so exhausting. He catches himself, though; there’s a small clear of his throat before he forces himself to continue. “So, our senior year.”

“Yep. Crazy, huh? S’gonna go by so fast. I mean, we’re going to have our grad caps, soon.” Lucas makes a low whistle. “You, me, Dustin — you know, Dustin, he’s—”

“I know Dustin,” interrupts Will, a little tiredly. He does. Dustin is his friend, too. Dustin has curly hair, and he is funny. He can’t recall his face, but that isn’t important. It’s the inside bits that count. He’s sure of it. “Yeah, it’s going to be weird. Growing up.”

Lucas is mildly embarrassed, but recovers fast. “Yeah.” An awkward pause. Again. Will wishes his body would go up in flames. “...I wonder why it’s not alphabetical. Homeroom. Byers. Me, Sinclair, B-and-S, doesn’t really—”

God is merciful; the bell rings. Will jumps to his feet like he’s been struck with a flat iron. Stupid, he knows. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t be resentful, and he knows, _knows,_ that he is his own worst enemy. He is cause for the stares and awkward pauses. Must be something he does. The way he talks. Fidgets. Blinks. Breathes. Before Lucas can do much else of anything, he’s made a beeline for the door, and the hallway becomes a blur of _things._

It’s only once he reaches the nearest dead-end that he realizes he’s a little lost, and Lucas has his schedule, still. Most people have found their way to class. There are stragglers, but Will would be mortified to ask for any kind of help, so he instead tries to follow context clues. A panic would only make things worse. He watches the doors, and he makes note of their numbering; C12 was homeroom. That was the third floor. He doesn’t remember winding down any steps, but the school’s office is downstairs, and that’s where he’d be able to retrieve a second schedule. It might be worth it. It’s a smarter and less humiliating fate than wandering around and asking about Lucas Sinclair, you know, his _friend?_

Eyes. He clears his throat. “Hi, I’m—” nobody cares, nobody cares, they _know_ — “I was wondering if I could get a second schedule, maybe. I lost mine.”

The bespectacled lady behind the desk watches him with an insurmountable pity. He feels like he’s drowning in her pinched frown. She leans forward, and very ugly-kindly says, “Have you checked your bag, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” It’s a slightly irritated response. “I know where it is. It’s with Lucas Sinclair.”

“Well, we don’t have your things, here.”

“I _know._ I,” a deep breath, what he hopes is a bright smile, “I would like another copy, please.”

“Oh, we can’t do all that today, honey.” She shakes her head. Will knows it’s _won’t,_ not _can’t,_ but he’s in no real position to complain. “How about we call Lucas down, or you go and fetch your things from him yourself? Let me write you a pass. Do you know where he’s at, or—”

“No.” He is beginning to feel slightly hopeless. 

“He’s got Algebra,” says another lady, much further back. “Sinclair, right? Bee-six.”

“Thank you.” Reassured, Will turns, offering an attempt at a friendly wave. Second floor. The stairwell is drafty, which Will appreciates; he’s always a little warmer than he’d like. It’s a quick trek, and while it occurs to Will that he’s missing his own first period’s introductions, he figures that worse has happened. Worse _will_ happen. So, he finds room B6, knocks, and peers inside. Of course it’s deathly quiet. Every set of eyes in the room is suddenly on him, and he can’t help but swallow nervously. 

“Hi, I’m looking for…” _Shit._ Think. _You woke up, you threw up, you drove._ “...Lucas,” he blurts, more than a little stupidly. His ears burn. “Lucas Sinclair.”

Lucas stands. He’s so much taller than Will remembers, but so is _everybody_ — Will included. “Got your schedule.” A grin. 

Will is so deeply relieved that he doesn’t think before he acts. With an apologetic sort of glance toward the teacher, he moves toward Lucas’s desk, moves to retrieve the slip of his schedule — but his eyes fall upon neighboring students. Faces. Long, pale, wild bangs and eyes (that’s his friend; that’s Mike, Mike he used to know). Hair like a fox coat, lots of chunky bracelets, freckled shoulders (he doesn’t know her name, but her face, he does). 

Then, there is another girl. He knows this girl. Her face is downturned, always. Her lips are as pink as shortcake. She’s got a healthy flush to her cheeks, which — for some violent, violent reason — upsets Will. Angers Will. The left side of his face twitches. She watches him, too. They are locked in a stare. He has a feeling like it’s not for long, like it only _feels_ so long, and maybe it does for her, too. 

He hates her. He admires her deeply. She is somebody’s ghost. 

That’s when his center of gravity shifts, and he falls — or, feels like he does. He finds that he is still standing upright. He can’t shake the feeling that something’s _wrong,_ or off-balance. His world is gray. The floor’s pink-and-blue tiles are cracked like cobwebs, the paint is chipped, and every desk, every seat — is empty. Perilously so. He coughs. Slowly, with great precision, he moves toward the windows. They’re long sheets of foggy glass, and upon peering outside, he realizes — or at least _feels_ — that he is the only person for a thousand miles, or a thousand lightyears. Alone. Honest to God. It’s as if his heart erupts in his chest; then, the windows shatter, and he drowns in little glass shards. Wind howls. He collapses, wincing against a sudden and furious blast of red light and hot air, teeth grit and hands shaking as he shields his aching eyes. He can’t help it; he’s scared. He is _scared,_ and he hates himself for the fact. 

_Empty. Empty. Empty._ A mantra. _Alone. Alone. Alone._

_ Don’t you miss anything? Aren’t you going to try? Do you love? Don’t you want to be loved? _

_ I hear you. I listen. Nobody else listens. _

Will trembles. He doesn’t think he could stand, even if he wanted to — so, he curls up, shoulders rounding forward in an attempt to shield himself from whips of wind and smoke. He smells fire. _Fire,_ the very _word_ smells like fire, danger, adrenaline, must address — _now,_ address _now._ He should do something. His muscles tense; he should be _doing_ something, shouldn’t he? He owes it to someone. Himself, even. Still, he is paralyzed by a trap of his own design, and even as his face is nipped with frost and his lungs steam, he hears — listens — understands. They aren’t words. They’re the chitterings of an eldritch beast, like clicking teeth and slapping gums, but his brain parses the sound with ease. Familiar. That’s what it is, is _familiar._

_ Sweet boy. You’ll be better, soon. _

Will chokes on his own gasps of air. It’s so cold, but he’s sweating. His blood boils. His body is a symphony of the senses, none of which are even remotely pleasant: sore retinas, broken legs, pooling brains, melted plastic. He screws his eyes shut. It’s an insurmountable pain; he’ll be unconscious, soon. (He hopes. It _hurts._)

And then, it is nothing.

He opens his eyes. He hears chairs scraping against linoleum, hushed voices, concerned sounds. Something’s beneath his head. As he shifts, he recognizes the tough, bunched fabric to be a bookbag. He’s on his side, and as he sits up (wearily so, with the world spinning on its axis), he spots Lucas, a face — no, that’s Dustin, he _knows_ Dustin — arguing. The latter brandishes a standard ruler. 

“You’ve got to put something in his mouth,” Dustin explains, “so he doesn’t, like — I dunno. Break his jaw.” 

“That’s stupid,” counters Lucas. He sounds panicked. “Who’s timing?”

“Me,” says a student Will doesn’t recognize — or doesn’t care to, at least. The room falls silent as Will attempts to stand. He knows he’s fragile, pale, because more than a few hands move to steady his shoulders. There’s so much light. Has the sun always been so _bright?_ It’s like a UV lamp. He winces, attempts to shield his eyes — but someone is holding his hand, he discovers. It’s a warm hand. Thin, and clammy. Nervous.

He turns, and he meets the offender’s gaze. His eyes are black as pitch, just like his hair, and his freckles have disappeared under an anxious flush. His shirt is a pale blue. It’s the sort of blue Will recognizes from Van Gogh’s famous oils, the _teal,_ a teal he thinks is awfully pretty. That’s all he can stand to think about for a long time. _Irises._ He’s seen the collection, but only in books. Never in person. 

It’s only natural that the very next thing he does is retch. Fortunately, he doesn’t make a mess — thank God he’d lost his breakfast — but it’s a horrible enough sound, and the crowd leaps back. Mike lets go of his hand. Lucas, to his credit, scrambles for the nearest wastebasket; Will retrieves it, flashes a fake smile, and sticks his head directly inside. He could stay like this forever. There would be no need to come out and face anybody or anything. Those _fucking_ faces. He hates feeling strange, but strange is better than vulnerable. He can be quietly strange. A piece of furniture. White noise. 

“Will.” Something moves to rest upon his back. It’s Dustin’s voice, and therefore, Dustin’s hand. “Buddy. Let’s see the nurse, ‘kay?”

“I’m fine.” He knows how he sounds, but he somehow can’t stop himself from prattling on. “Really, I am.” As if to prove his point, he finally raises his head, and he is immediately presented with the pink-lipped, short-lashed girl. His stomach churns. He begins to shake. For a moment, he thinks he is about to be launched into the empty, cold place again — but he isn’t, and instead, Dustin helps him to his feet. It occurs to him that he’s taller, now. Dustin was _always_ taller. 

“Get off.” Will attempts to shirk him off until he realizes he’s making a scene. “I — I can walk myself, please.”

“You just _died,_” says fox-girl. She sounds horrified.

Dustin pulls a face. “Well, he didn’t — he didn’t _die,_ if he died, he’d—”

“God, does it matter?” Mike’s voice. Will wishes his stomach wouldn’t drop the way it does. “He’s white as a fucking sheet. Let me—”

“—I’ll take him,” interjects Dustin, and before another word can be said on the matter, he’s steering Will toward the nearest exit like a disobedient dog. Will wants to be indignant, but he can’t. His head feels like it’s full of helium. It’s all he can do just to trudge along, head turned, the ends of his fingers tingling. He feels watched. He _is_ watched — to think otherwise would be misguided at best. Still, those are _worldly_ problems.

_ Better. Soon. _

He thinks of the girl, and her name appears at the very back of his head in neon lights: Eleanor. But, no, that’s not quite right. Formal. Impersonal. Alice. Emily. Emma. Em?

“You’re dragging your feet,” says Dustin. 


	2. karma

He doesn’t feel quite real, stumbling through the school’s squeaky-clean, first-day polished floors. He is watching himself on television. There is a delay, some laggy electrical current like when he would swim dip his head under the quarry’s lapping current and voices would become dull and rumbly, because the vibration of sound was disturbed by dirty, murky waters. Dazed. Disoriented. He belongs in the other place — _ up, or down? _ He can’t be sure. All he knows is that the cold dredged his insides and left something terrible and alone within the pit of his stomach, or that those empty seats had to be different than where he was _ now, _ somehow. The frost and fog disturbed his equilibrium to such an extent that he’s having trouble maintaining his balance. The world is so vibrant, now. It is newly emerged, no longer so dull and drab — and, somehow, worse for the fact. It’s _ rich. _ Cane sugar.

Dustin watches, quietly perturbed. Will knows he must be uncomfortable. Although the world prefers to pretend otherwise, it is plain, undiluted fact that their little group (_ party, _as Mike would insist) had shot off into new, upsetting directions. Lucas is varsity. Mike grew his hair. Dustin found theater, and Will became invisible. Their names feel different in his head, now. Their separate features, unkempt brows and long noses, hover like particularly sinister storm clouds — new, scary connotations to old memories. 

Their silence doesn’t last. It never does in Dustin’s company; he is scared of the quiet, and the creeping thoughts it can bring. “So, how do you feel?”

“How do I feel?” Will is incredulous. “I’ve been better.”

“Well, sure.” Dustin adjusts his bag atop his left shoulder, frowning. His eyes follow the hallway’s brick spackling. “But, I guess what I’m trying to ask is what _ happened. _ You know? Whether you feel any… Different.”

Sure he does. _ Very _ different, in fact. Will almost wants to tell the truth. Instead, he shakes his head. “I had a seizure. How I used to.” That’s what the doctors said. Epileptic. Weak-willed. Fragile. “It’s not a big deal. The nurse will call my mom, and she’ll freak out, and it’ll be okay. After.”

“Is that really what you think?”

The question catches Will off-guard. He blinks. When Dustin doesn’t waver, he is forced to think up some kind of response, because — well, it’s _ not _ what he thinks, if he’s being genuine. He thinks something has gone horribly wrong. He thinks he might be crazy. “I think so, yeah.”

Dustin doesn’t say anything else. They reach the nurse’s office, where a young, friendly aide idles over a newspaper crossword. She raises her head and smiles. Somehow, this bothers Will; she nonetheless stands and moves to greet them properly, taking care to smooth her glossy, platinum hair. “Hello, boys. Dustin,” she chimes, and Dustin beams a toothy grin. “And — Will, if I remember correctly?”

Of course she does. He wants to be mortified, but he can’t seem to choke up the effort. “Hi.”

“Hello, Ma’am,” says Dustin, and Will is happy to let him carry on with a wolfish smile. “My friend here appears to have suffered a seizure on account of his, uh, epilepsy.” 

“Oh.” She apparently hadn’t expected anything beyond a runny nose, and promptly pulls a face. “I — well, Mrs. Buchanan won’t be around until ten o’clock, so I think I’ll — Byers, right?”

Will nods. She begins to leaf through a cluttered sort of filing cabinet, manicured nails clicking against shiny silver metal, and eventually locates a crumpled manilla folder labeled “BYERS, WILLIAM” in black Sharpie. A yellow sheet of paper is procured. Will’s heart sinks. He knew it was coming, of course — but the idea of upsetting his mother so early in the morning is not a particularly happy one, let alone the prospect of a nagging Jonathan, who insisted he become Will’s secondary emergency contact the moment he was of-age and therefore legally able. 

She dials somebody’s number off of a shiny black telephone clasped to the wall. It’s the old rotary type, similar to the landline his mother kept at home before a storm fried the wiring. “...Hello, ma’am, is this Joyce Byers? Yes! Hello, Joyce. I’m Kimmy from Hawkins High School’s nurse’s office, and I’m here with your son, Will, who — it appears he’s had a, you know, an _ episode _.”

Dustin winces. Will wants to bury his head in his hands. Instead, he steps forward, because he knows what’s coming. 

She offers the phone. “She wants to talk to you, honey.”

It’s a heavy receiver, cold against his ear. His mouth flattens into a hard line. To Dustin’s credit, he seems to have struck a conversation with the nurse aide (Kimmy, apparently) as to preserve some semblance of Will’s privacy — that, or he’s trying to work some womanizing angle. It doesn’t matter. Will is already melting into the ugly tiled floor. “Hello?”

“Will?” His mother tends to have a certain breathless quality about her voice, like she’s got far too much to say and can hardly stand to wait a moment in the meantime. “Will, baby, are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I,” Will breathes in a little too sharply, “I’m fine.”

“I’m at work, but I’m going to have Jonathan pick you up, and we’ll get you to the doctor before dark. I promise. We’ll get this sorted out.”

“I don’t need to go to the doctor, Mom.” He wants to add a _ please don’t fucking make me; _ for some inscrutable reason relative to his “condition,” he frequents the big, bulky government building secluded by Hawkins’ woods. _ Hawkins National Laboratory. _ The doctor is a small, chipper man who cracks jokes while he taps his Will’s knees with a rubber hammer, but his attempts at friendliness have nothing on white hospital gowns and saline. Will _ hates _ hospitals. They sometimes make him so nervous that he flares up in a rash, or his nose streams. “Seriously. It was a freak thing. I’m not worried.”

“The last time we let it go, you woke up sicker, and we wound up going anyhow.” Her voice takes on another funny quality. This time, it reeks of deceit, but Will doesn’t ask questions. She loses her temper otherwise. _ Don’t you make a liar out of me, _ she’d say, and he’d wilt under her gaze with how fiery she’d turn, how wet her eyes could _ really _ go. “Just bear with me, baby. Please. _ Please, _ so I won’t worry.”

He hovers. He breathes in, and then out. “...Alright.”

She gasps a relieved sound. “Thanks, Will. You hang tight, okay? Jonathan will be there, and he’ll fix you soup and a compress, whatever you need.”

“I can do it myself,” defends Will, but he can already hear her rustling on the other end of the line. She sounds a little distant from the phone, almost like she’s multitasking inventories — although he can’t imagine she’s very far from the telephone at the front end of Melvald’s, the one resting sort of lonely against the countertop. 

“Be good,” she adds. Then the line clicks dead. 

_ Be good. _ Like that means anything. It means _ sit and stay, dog. _ He’s halfway furious. His stomach is a bed of hot coals, and as he stares very hard at the ground, he imagines every single person in the world, in the universe, is on _ fire. _ He imagines their skin scorched black and chipping like old paint. He imagines eyeballs melting, and teeth chattering, and jaws melting away from faces like in _ Halloween. _

“What’d she say?”

Will blinks hard. He can’t register what’s happening. “What?”

“I _ said, _ ” Dustin exaggerates his words, “what’d she _ say, _ man?”

“Don’t.” His mouth feels dry. _ Don’t you fucking talk down to me. Ever. _

“Oh.” Dustin is taken aback, but he nods. His sneakers make squeaky scuffles into the floor. “Okay. But, uh, what did… are you going home, then?”

He has to consciously think about the answer, which is a resounding _ yes, _ but he wants to lie through his teeth. He doesn’t. Instead, he thinks about how Jonathan is probably worrying himself sick, blowing red lights in his haste to fetch Will, his baby brother, his weak link. His tie would be crooked. He would be a little disappointed in the face, because he would have thought they were done with this, the _ fucked-up, sick-note thing, _ Seizure Kid, Zombie Boy, Lost-In-The-Woods. They thought that body was his. It must’ve been real bad, bloated really blue, to have been mistaken for his own arms and legs — so maybe the nose had gone black and fallen off. Maybe there was just a notch where his face should have been. _ What’s wrong? _ A simpering sound, something Jonathan would say with a tight frown and crinkly eyes. _ You alright? _

“Will.” Dustin’s expression has become very seriously concerned. He clasps a hand over Will’s shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here, buddy.”

He is sent on his way with a lemon sucker. Dustin hovers, asking questions without necessarily expecting answers, shouldering him along when he gets confused at corners (“the right,” he chirps, and Will swings a left; “or, uh, that works too”). He feels warm all the way down to his fingers and toes. It’s not a burning sensation, but it’s decidedly uncomfortable, sweltering like a humid day or a hot, parked car. Dustin sits with him all the way until Jonathan arrives, all anxious and running his hands up and down his slacks in the way he does when he’s feeling especially helpless, but Will doesn’t register any feelings of gratitude, and he certainly isn't annoyed_ . _ He’s just floating. His brain is made up of lapping, oceanic waves. Even as Jonathan scrawls his name and relation across the morning’s sign-in (throwing glances over his shoulder all the while), Will can only stand to watch his own two hands. They are pink and human. Precious jewels. Tourmaline. 

“You ready?” Jonathan averts his eyes; he is plainly unfond of Hawkins High School for lack of even remotely decent memories. Today, he dons a pressed white shirt and ivory green tie. He extends a hand, and Will takes it instinctually, coming to stand and trailing along at his older brother’s shiny, shoe-polished heels. It’s a traipse, all shaky legs with Jonathan’s hand clasped tightly over his shoulder, but they reach the car unscathed (although Will is blinking so quickly and repeatedly that Jonathan is beginning to look at him strangely). They meet Jonathan’s new car. Sleek, handsome, yet practical; Jonathan washes the hood once weekly and the tires biweekly. It’s a science. Even now, the black paint sparkles almost silver, and Will can pick out infinitesimal little specks of blue, purple, pink, and so on. He slides into the passenger seat and buckles promptly while Jonathan turns the engine, swiveling to watch for oncoming traffic as he backs out, the very picture of concentration.

The outdoors, which had seemed bleak and gray that morning, are so flush with color that Will is beginning to suffer a headache. He props the heel of his palm flat against his temple. His throat feels tight and cramped like a plastic straw. However, whatever resentment he’d experienced previously has melted away, replaced with pure and pained exhaustion that seeps cold through his bones. No room for anger. No room for _ anything, _ save for the blood his heart insists to pump. (Lazily, at that. Dull. A slow, unsteady sort of thud, christened a heart murmur sometime during the seventh grade.)

Jonathan’s eyes flicker everywhere but Will’s face. His hands are clammy and white around the steering wheel’s leather grip, but he doesn’t appear to know what to say — or, alternatively, whether he should speak at all. It would often seem like his jaw was wired shut when faced with a conversational dilemma — namely, any sort of predicament that which required the social nonchalance he so plainly did not have. Even with Will, he’d pour over things to say for ages. _ Feeling better? What happened? Do you need anything, or should I leave you alone? _ Eventually, he settles upon the understated (if not awkward): “So, what’s up?”

Will wrinkles his nose. “Um.”

“Don’t _ um, _ ” says Jonathan; another one of Will’s habits. _ Um, _ and he wouldn’t have to answer anybody’s questions. It took up time and space up until whoever happened to be prodding his psyche at a given moment would just about scream. “I mean, did something — you know, trigger this?”

“I don’t know.” A pause. Jonathan doesn’t appear to budge, so he drones on, “I mean, I guess I was a little lost, before. And I had to sort of retrace my steps.”

“That makes sense.” Jonathan does not sound even remotely sure of himself. “So, you were disoriented, basically.”

“Um.”

“Sure,” finishes Jonathan, and they fall silent. Jonathan seems relieved. He drives at exactly the speed limit while cabbing his family around, although Will thinks he probably guns it any other time. He’s got the finicky tendencies of their mother (who tends to speed without really meaning to, just because she’s so nervous and her brain is somewhere else). So they crawl along. It’s slow enough that Will can hear grit and gravel grinding against the car tires, and then they stop at a ragged sort of house — _ their _ house. Right. Just the one floor, hardly three bedrooms, and a near-closet for a bathroom. The driveway is deserted. Jonathan parks expertly and throws an arm around Will’s shoulder as they head indoors like he’s trying to put on a performance of good, wholesome brotherly love for their nonexistent neighbors, but it falls a little flat when he trips over the curb and yanks away immediately thereafter to regain his balance. 

Inside, it smells like fried eggs. He thinks Jonathan must have eventually succeeded over the stove that morning. He drifts toward the kitchen cabinets, fetches a plastic cup (emblazoned with Yogi-Bear and Boo-Boo, which makes him feel a little bit like a dorky kid again), and fills it to the very brim with cold tap water. Then he chugs it. Jonathan watches, mystified, as Will’s throat bobs and little slips of water drip down his chin. He hadn’t realized how _ thirsty _ he was. He feels like a brine shrimp, the stupid sea monkey kits that came in plastic where he'd dump the eggs into yeasty water and watch them grow, and they’d grow a first eye and then a second and then chase your flashlight’s beam. Once the cup comes up empty, he gasps. He must have been awfully dehydrated. His last meal was breakfast, and he’d lost that to the sink drain. The thought makes him a little queasy.

“You okay?” Jonathan glances over Will’s shoulder, cautious or concerned (or somewhere in-between). His hands are glued awkwardly to his sides like he doesn’t want to offend Will by hover-brothering. 

“Sure,” replies Will, and he fills the cup a second time. 

He has a nap. It’s rough sleep, broken up by tree branches scraping against the windows (which he minds terribly at night, but it’s not so bad during the day) and Jonathan’s pacing, puttering, creeping past Will’s door like he half-expects to see blood seeping out from underneath the frame like in movies. Still, it’s okay. Will needed the sleep. He also needed the time to get his head in one decisive place, because every slot his gray matter is supposed to occupy (temporal lobe, cerebrum, cerebellum, and so on) is empty like his brains have leaked out through his ears. He wakes up feeling not especially refreshed but certainly more sensible, and he sits up with his hands sprawled across his lap, staring hard at the peeling walls patterned with ships, trains, birds. His bangs fall smooth and flat across his eyes; idly, he thinks he should probably think about getting a haircut, but the idea is shooed away. _ Later. _ He doesn’t like having anybody’s scissors so close to his neck. 

He steps out of his bedroom and is about to wander toward the bathroom when he hears voices. 

“—Not getting any better.”

“You can’t say that. Not for sure.” 

It’s his mother and Jonathan. He’s surprised that Jonathan is hanging around, given he’d skipped out on work to fetch Will from school, and he’s even _ more _ surprised to hear his mother’s voice at such an early hour when she rarely shuts up Melvald’s before ten. Will pauses, considers letting his feet fall extra-heavy or clearing his throat so that they can hear — but then he doesn’t. Instead, he stands perfectly still. His heart hammers hard in his chest. _ Unknown Pleasures. _ The thud, thud, thud of mechanistic drums. 

“Yes we can,” insists Joyce, and Will can hear that while her voice is hushed, she’s getting audibly frustrated. “We can tell. He’s fallen out with his friends, he can’t keep his food down, and he’s having his episodes. That was the first sign, before. The freezing-up.” 

“It could just be what it’s _ supposed _ to be.” Jonathan sounds like he doesn’t believe what he’s saying, but sure wishes he did. “Seizures. Like with the epilepsy.” 

“We both know—” 

“—Know what? That he’s dying, or something? That the big-bad is back again and we don’t have any hope this time because, because — because El’s not that girl anymore, mom, and Will’s not that boy. Not that same kid. We have to get _ away _ from this.”

“I _ wanted _ to,” it’s a dry and unseeming hiss, “but you wouldn’t _ let _ me.”

“The last thing Will needed was some big change, okay? He hardly knows what’s going on as things are. Shit, he got _ lost, _ this morning. In school. Had to retrace his steps.”

“Don’t say it like that. Don’t, please. Not like he’s broken or something.”

“He’s not! I didn't mean that. Not at all.” 

There’s a long silence. Will’s eyes have begun to water furiously (not like tears, but as if a particularly strong gust of wind has kicked dust into his face). Then he moves forward. He pushes open the bathroom door, flicks on the light, and shuts himself up. There’s no lock anymore; he can still see the little square of grime where a deadbolt used to be. He turns the faucet, and as cold water spurts out in rivulets, he cups his hands under the stream and splashes his face. It’s just the thing to do, he supposes. Like on TV. When he was smaller, if he came home upset, he’d be told to hold a sopping wet dish rag to his burning eyes and cheeks while Joyce went and _ fixed this, don’t you worry, honey. _

It’s a deafening quiet, now. He shuts off the water and steps out into the hall. When he does, he spies his mother beaming what she appears to think is a very genuine and believable smile. “Hello, Will!” She scoops him up into a hug and rocks him back and forth, back and forth — and for just a moment, Will is nauseated. Then it’s gone. 

“Hi.” It’s a dull sound. Still, he smiles back. No sense projecting any kind of fear, any mistrust — not when he hardly knows what she and Jonathan had meant to begin with. Death isn’t so scary. Some potential _ big-bad, _ however, is different — whether a massive stroke or a coma, or even just another financial recession. That would be the case, wouldn’t it? Just a _ something. _ A normal something, however tragic or tough or unexpected. 

_ But who is El? _

Joyce watches him. Her gaze is slightly reproachful, he can’t help but think. Reproachful and maybe a little sad. Her hands clutch at his wrists. _ Looking for a pulse, _ he imagines. _ A heart. Any sort at all. _

“You’d better get dressed. The doctor’s expecting us.” Per his crestfallen expression, she goes on, “I know, I know — but we’ve got to be _ sure, _ Will. We’ve got to.”

He pseudo-sulks for the entire car ride, during which Joyce hums to some radio tune he doesn’t recognize (but probably should) and occasionally reaches over to pat his knee or jostle his shoulder in a friendly, excitable way. It’s not a long trip or anything. Hawkins National Laboratory is just up the way, although it is concealed by lush green forestation during the summertime, so Will doesn’t spy the familiar chain link fence or big, caged windows until they’re about thirty yards from the front gate. As always, they roll to a stop at the bright orange barrier, where a little building sort of like a toll booth sits as a temporary fixture (but it certainly isn’t temporary, because it’s been the same since Will was little; he knows this, somehow). Then his mother forks over her driver’s license. The guy inside points a little flashlight at her tiny grinning photo and studies her face for about three or four seconds before giving them the go-ahead. 

She parks carelessly. While she fishes for her pocketbook, Will slips out of the car and watches the horizon with big, glassy eyes. He imagines the sky stretching over the treeline for miles and miles. All he’s ever known is Hawkins, Indiana — but he knows there are bigger and better places to be. He knows he inhabits the very same Earth as Europe, as South Africa, as Australia. There’s more than just the midwest and its plain, gloomy days. As Joyce trails behind, waving her hand as a go-ahead, Will stands up a little straighter (five feet and eight inches now). They proceed indoors. 

The laboratory is a more welcoming place on the inside, if not a little barren. There never seems to be any _ actual _ people. Regular people, he means. There are only employees and stuffy, important types. There is a lady at the front desk who appears mildly interested in their arrival before she recognizes Joyce’s dark hair and worry lines; then she returns to her romance novel. Will settles into one of the lobby’s many unoccupied chairs. It’s plastic, and the seat back digs into his shoulders in weird, uncomfortable places. 

Joyce looks at him sort of critically. “Sweetheart, I think you need a haircut.”

“I know.” It’s not even a lie. Eventually, he’ll be forced to get a trim. He should have gone in a week ago. And a week before _ then, _ and so on. 

“I mean it.” She reaches forward to ruffle his hair, and she cracks a smile. “You look overgrown. Like a plant.”

“Like pokeweed,” blurts Will. “It’s, um — it’s a kind of weed.”

“Yes, like that. Dandelions and stuff.”

The lady occupying the front desk calls his name after a short while; She eyes Joyce, who rises immediately, and so Will is forced to trail on after her. He supposes it’s better this way. The less time they spend hanging around and watching freaky government-people, with their pistols swinging against their hips and their lazy, disinterested eyes. They never look at Will. It almost feels intentional — but he’s grateful, because he’s sick of being gawked at, anyhow. His mother’s hand settles against his shoulder as they duck one of the many examination rooms containing wide, sunny windows (with the shades drawn) and a general assortment of doctorish things (wooden popsicle-looking sticks, cotton balls, eye droppers). He knows he should sit. Instead, he paces. He hates the Chair. The Chair, with real leather straps that can wrap around a person’s wrists and ankles, and thin, translucent tubings that run through your hair and dive under your skin — only sometimes, though. Hopefully no time soon. 

The doctor (Something Owens) is about as intimidating as Will remembers — which is to say, not very. He has tufty gray hair that pokes up above his ears and scalp, and he beams a cheery smile that gives a distinctly _ practiced _ impression, like he’s been faking it (and making it well enough) for a very long time. He dons a starched white lab coat and a gray suit jacket with a deep blue tie. He carries a clipboard, and the knowledge that it probably contains all kinds of invasive information about Will’s medical history makes him extremely nervous, almost as if they already know exactly what he’s about to say — so what’s the point?

“Will Byers!” Dr. Owens extends a hand, and Will shakes it. “It’s good to see you, Will. Really great to see you. Tell me, what’s brought you into the old office, huh?”

Will thinks _ office _ is a weak word. An understatement, really. He bobs his shoulders in a shrug.

Joyce cuts in (rather stiffly). “He had another episode at school,” she explains. “A seizure, we think. His memory is still prone to lapses, and his appetite is bad, almost worse than before, we think.”

Will scratches his arm. The pair of them, his mother and the Doctor, look at him like they’re expecting some additional, specifying information — but he just stares, wide-eyed. 

“What’s your take, Will?” The Doctor adjusts his glasses. They are small and rectangular, and the frames are made up of thin silver wire. “How do you feel?”

“Um.” Will pauses as if that might be enough, but it’s not, and he thusly continues. “Well, I feel like I could be better, I guess.” 

“Better. Better how?”

“Like,” Will’s eyes roll back, “I guess I just feel like it’s hard to wake up. Or that I don’t have, um — things to look forward to, anymore. And like my body won’t let me be hungry. Or awake.” _ Or have friends. Or dream. Or want. _

“How would you describe your appetite, Will?”

“I get dry mouth, and I throw it up.” It occurs to him that he hasn’t eaten in a while. It’s been even longer that he’s managed to keep anything down, and that probably explains the way his stomach is clawing up at his ribs. “It makes it hard. Eating.”

His mother looks like she’s in pain. Nonetheless, the Doctor nods his head like they’re making great progress, and makes a small check in pen against his clipboard. “And the episode. The, uh. The _ seizure. _”

Will considers lying. He wants to, because putting what happened into the real, actualized _open_ would be like admitting it happened; it would also make him liable for a trip upstate to the loony bin (as Dustin calls it; in actuality, it is the Foundations Center for Adolescent Behavior Health, where troubled kids spend some time away from home and learn coping skills like _don’t yell,_ and _don’t seriously maim or injure, _and _don’t kill yourself, either._) Telling is like tattling. Telling is like admitting he’s crazy. But telling would also clear his conscience of deeply confusing thoughts, the mood swings, the way he’d wanted his mother and his brother and the rest of the waking world to perish in blue fire. It’s a shameful prospect, now: of course he loves his family, and of course he wishes them the least harm they could possibly endure, but in that moment he’d felt so overrun with raw, mean _hatred._ Genuine hate. Hate he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. It burgeoned under the surface, sure, swam in his head and under his waifish skin, but the resentment he’d felt was as shocking as it was sincere. To get it all off his chest — well, it’d be a relief, he thinks. Like a gasp of clean air. 

“I saw a girl.” His eyes are averted, almost as if in embarrassment. “I could have sworn I knew her. I didn’t, though. She was just familiar. I thought I knew her name, but I didn’t.”

The room is silent. They want more, like hungry dogs. Will imagines their teeth snapping hard and their jaws dripping with yellowed spit. 

He continues. “So, I got dizzy, suddenly.” _ You can stop. You don’t have to go on. That’s enough. _ “It was like — it was like the world was sort of flipped on its axis, like it went upside-down. You know? Like somebody flipped me over but my feet just didn’t leave the ground.”

At this, Joyce’s face goes perfectly and starkly white. She’d be a wax figure if it weren’t for the way her eyes glitter (with something, maybe fear, which scares Will). She grips at her knees. The Doctor, however, seems to maintain his composure save for his sudden scrabbling of pen against paper. He doesn’t meet Will’s eyes. “And then what, buddy? It went all black?”

_ Yes, it did! _ He wants to scream. _ It went black like it always does, or is supposed to, anyway — and then I woke up, and Mike Wheeler wasn’t even touching me, not even close, he was on the opposite end of the room and that was all, yes, that was all! _ But the truth dribbles out of his mouth like snake oil. “I heard a voice, and it told me things. It told me things would get better. And— then I woke up,” he finishes lamely, and only for the fact that his mother is visibly trembling and he feels that she’d burst into petrified tears if he were to go on. “I know it sounds insane. I know, it’s stupid, and — I mean, I guess it’s probably just my head, right? Like always. I guess it just felt really, really _ real. _”

The Doctor responds briskly, like he’s trying very hard to convince Will of how perfectly regular and _ normal _ his condition really is. “I bet it did. These sorts of delusions, Will — they feel that way, feel so _real,_ because your brain is _trying_ to perceive them as real. Does that make sense? It wants you to believe it, because that’s how it’s meant to cope, see? By putting on a kind of show.”

“_ Sam. _ ” Joyce’s voice sounds like when Will used to bunch up snowballs without gloves, and his fingers would burn with cold. It’s with a start that he recognizes Dr. Owen’s first name, which he’s never heard before (or doesn’t remember, at least). “Now’s not the time for — for _ that, _ okay?”

They look at one another. Will’s right knee begins to bounce anxiously. 

“Sure, Joyce,” comes the cool reply, and he faces Will again. “We’re going to run an MRA, make sure all your blood’s where it’s supposed to be, okay? And then you’ll be on your way home. Best have your mother get you an ice cream, or something.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” blurts Will. The words come so suddenly and forcefully that even he is surprised by himself; then again, he is so deeply frustrated by this entire affair that his temper is running much shorter than usual (he is generally so patient that it is kind of personally infuriating).

The Doctor looks at him weirdly. Then he laughs. “Sure, if you think so.”

There are more tubes, more medical tape, and big, bulky X-ray machines. He receives another lolly for his trouble — this time, it’s green apple, which is a flavor he doesn’t particularly care for. (He is beginning to really despise lollipops.) Dr. Owens says something about how damn _ tall _ he’s getting (he isn’t), says he must attract all sorts of girls (he doesn’t), and sends them off after asking that Will keeps him posted about all of his brain’s goings-ons (he won’t). Will and his mother are both quiet until they reach the car. He rolls his window all the way down, feeling rather warm and wanting the wind to reach the sweat beading along the back of his neck, and Joyce stares emptily into the rearview like it’ll tell her something she desperately needs to hear. 

“Tell me, Will.” Her voice is airy. She doesn’t sound very _ present, _ he can’t help but think. “Do you feel alright? Really. Do you feel okay, anymore?”

He doesn’t have to think for long. “No. Not much.”

“Me neither, baby.” She kicks the car in reverse and backs out of their parking spot. Then she goes on, “but that’s not the end of the world, because it gets better. Every time. What goes up comes down, and then it goes back up again. That’s — well, that’s plain karma, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” he concludes, although he personally feels that life doesn’t owe him any more ups than downs. He actually feels a little bit like he’s doomed to nothing _ but _ downs. “Sure.”

“And we’re going to get the good back. Ourselves.” The clouds have swelled up into dark gray puffs, and the wind blows Will’s hair off his forehead. The world has that very pregnant sensation of the dry before the wet, the way the air stands still and then gets rough and choppy like open water, and then the rain falls. Just like that. “We’re going to try our hand at being really freaking happy. Happy as anything. Tell me, are you going to the school’s Boo-Bash, Will?”

“Oh God, Mom, don’t make me.” Will groans into his hands. The Boo-Bash one of his school’s many annual attempts at _ fun, _ even though Will personally has never found itchy suits or toe-pinching shoes to be especially entertaining. There would be watery punch, and they’d play all the _ latest hits, _ whatever that meant — as well as old Halloween stuff like _ Monster Mash, _ and _ Thriller, _ and whatever else. To Will, Halloween is a sacred thing. He used to spend long hours trick-or-treating, and then him and the others ( _ others, _ Lucas Sinclair and Dustin and Mike, and then the other one, the girl — well, they were all friends, and that was the point) would gorge on cheap candies until somebody threw up. Then they’d all get a little sick to their stomachs. Once he was too old to really bother, he settled for trashy horror flicks and picking at the baby-Snickers his Mom would always buy for the little kids that knocked on their door (even if they didn’t get too many 'treaters, anymore). Celebrating his favorite month, his _ favorite holiday, _ at Hawkins High in a goddamned suit and tie sounded like a personal affront. “I don’t even — I wouldn’t even have anybody to _ go with. _”

“Oh, what does that matter?” If there’s one thing Will appreciates, it’s that his mother never harps about _ girls. _ “It’s just for fun. You wouldn’t even have to stay. I bet Dustin’s going, and so’s your friend Lucas, and Mike—”

“Mike’s probably taking El,” says Will carelessly, and then he stops. And thinks. And he thinks some more.

They’re both quiet for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i'm slow. college is hard! but i'm chipping away at this the best i can. please leave comments/kudos, it helps my brain do the writing thing.

**Author's Note:**

> https://brofski.tumblr.com/
> 
> i want to continue this, i think. it started as more of an exercise than anything. still, if you liked, please drop kudos and comment below! teamwork makes the dream work.


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